Sy Foreman sat on a round, unpadded cushion at the Borough Diner. “I can’t believe it,” he said into his phone. “First time I’ve ever done that. I must have left it in the house.” After a brief pause, he said, “My knife, what else?”

One seat away at the counter, Detective Doulas Fisher cut into an egg yolk and watched it ooze yellow. He listened. His ears perked up when the man speaking into his phone mentioned the house address, 745 Webster Place. Pressure was being put on the police department to catch a serial knife-wielding home intruder. The situation had become particularly acute, since the last two occurrences had taken place when the parents were out and baby sitters were present. The police had few leads, but one of the victim’s neighbors thought she saw a stranger walk past her on the day of the break-in. The description matched the man seated near the detective. He needed to move cautiously.

Fisher’s record of screw-ups was legendary throughout the 90^th precinct. A month ago, he failed to read a suspect his rights, and the man walked free. Before that, he tripped on his own untied shoelace, erasing vital fingerprints at a crime scene. 

After the man ended his phone call, Fisher wiped his mouth and shifted over a seat so that he was next to the man. He identified himself. “Mind if I sit down?” he asked.

Foreman accepted, gesturing with his hand. He applied a spoon to the hardened top skin of the chocolate pudding before him, skillfully skimmed it off, and dropped the thickish membrane on a napkin. “Nasty stuff, that skin. Now, what can I do for you, detective?”

In as calm and friendly a tone as he could muster, Fisher asked, “Did I hear you say you left a knife at the home of 745 Webster Place?” The fact that the perpetrator dropped his knife during the robbery was not public knowledge.

Foreman carefully stared at Fisher’s badge. “I did. Why?”

“Never mind,” Fisher answered. “Were you also inside the house at 30 Formosa Way on,” he paused to check his notebook, “the 30^th of January?”

Foreman took a spoonful of pudding. “I don’t remember the exact date, but yes, I believe that was the address and January sounds about right,” Foreman answered. “It was cold. I remember that. Why?”

“With a knife? The same knife you claimed to have left at the Webster Place home?”

“Yes, of course.” Again, Foreman asked, “Why?”

That clinched it.

“I’m placing you under arrest,” Fisher said.

“What? For what?” asked the incredulous Foreman. He put up no resistance while the detective applied handcuffs.

“Breaking and entering, robbery with a lethal weapon, for starters.” His eyes darted between Foreman and his own phone. Fisher punched a contact name. “Chief. Fisher. I’ve made an arrest in the home invader cases. Guy sitting next to me admits to being inside 745 Webster and 30 Formosa. Said he left a knife at the Webster Street address. You know, the butcher knife.” “Butcher knife?” Foreman shouted. “I’m a mohel.”

“There’s a gun pointed at your crotch. Unless you want to take your next piss with the help of a catheter, I recommend you take a brisk walk away and disappear into the restroom…” Jackie squinted at the guard’s name tag, “…C. Smith. What does the C stand for?”

The unarmed mall security guard stationed outside Crown’s Fine Jewelers swallowed hard. “Chris.”

“I’m Jackie. There are a lot of people walking around. Just act natural. We’re having a conversation, nothing more. You’re in the clear as long as you’re gone from what’s about to take place in there.” Jackie’s head leaned toward the store. “You took a bathroom break. No one will blame you for that. Nod if you follow me.”

Chris nodded.

“Good. You’re smart. What are they paying you, minimum wage to watch over a bunch of high-priced diamonds and watches? Don’t you find that ironic?” Jackie paused. Chris nodded again. “Here’s what’s going to happen.” Jackie shoved the pistol harder against Chris’ crotch. “After you walk away and stay away, I’m going into the store you were hired to protect and smash a few of those real clear and shiny glass display cases. I may have to smash a few skulls as well. That all depends on the level of cooperation I get from the staff and few customers in there. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but sometimes people get stupid or try being heroes and it never works out well for them. I’ll pick up a couple of choice pieces and walk out. Sound like a plan?”

“Why are you doing-“ Chris began asking.

“Shush,” Jackie said softly, yet firmly. “You’re a rent-a-cop, Chris, not a psychologist. After I’m gone and the real cops come, you’ll be in the clear. Just tell them nature called and that the thief must have staked out the place waiting for the right opportunity. I’m warning you to stay out of sight for 10-minutes. No more or less. That’s all the time I’ll need. And don’t tell anyone because if I find out you did something stupid like alerting someone. I…well…never mind, I don’t think you’d be that foolish. We good?”

Chris nodded.

“Good. Now, slow and easy, reach into your pocket and hand me your cell phone.” Jackie took and pocketed it. “Now, give me that little walkie-talkie thingy hanging from your belt. Wonderful. Now, disappear Chris Smith. Nice doing business with you.”

Jackie watched the guard disappear around a wing that led to the restrooms.

• • •

Professor Celia Washington stood before an audience of her peers at the annual American Psychological Association convention in Washington, DC. Most faces turned away from the large screen toward Dr. Washington. Enough time had elapsed for everyone to have read the fictional passage about a jewelry store burglary.

“All of our subjects read the same scenario as you all just finished,” Washington began. “Each subject was given two photographs, one of Chris Smith and one of Jackie. My team and I varied the photos. In some cases, Chris and Jackie were Caucasian. In others, they were African American. A different group saw a black Chris and a white Jackie, others saw the opposite. In photos shown to another group, Chris and Jackie were females. In others, they were both males. Some saw a female Chris and male Jackie, others vice versa.”

A number of graphs flashed up on the screen behind Dr. Washington. “We asked our subjects to select on a Likert scale, from 1 to 10, the likelihood that the security guard, Chris Smith disobeyed Jackie and sought help or assistance. The data are compelling. As you can see from this first graph,” Washington aimed a laser at the screen, “The results revealed…”

Professor Washington’s talk, titled, “The Racial and Gender Impact on Response to Criminal Behavior” kicked off the morning session in APA’s Social Psychology division.

The message was on a continuous loop, repeated every 15 minutes. Something about never leaving suitcases unattended, keeping suitcases in your possession at all times, and a caution about accepting bags from strangers. The message mercifully ended with, “If you see something, say something.”

Sam sat at gate 14 in Newark International Airport waiting to board an early morning plane to Portland, Oregon. He saw something, a woman in a niqab, her face concealed but her eyes uncovered. And Sam didn’t trust those eyes. He didn’t like the oversized handbag she carried either, but he convinced himself that the woman had to have passed through security, so hopefully she was clean. She appeared to have an unnatural interest in the other passengers waiting to board the flight. She seemed to study each passenger. Her gaze met Sam’s. He turned away.

Boarding time. Sam couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. There was something about the woman, in addition to her appearance that worried Sam. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but her movements were those of someone anxious. Maybe she just didn’t like flying? Sam thought about that. Sure, that was it. He tried to convince himself everything would be fine. Still, Sam knew that he’d try to keep a close watch on her during the flight until safely landing in Portland.

On board, Sam lucked out. He sat in 12C, her seat, 11D. Sam had a perfect vantage point of the woman and her suspicious handbag. She pulled a magazine from the seat in front and without reading, flipped the pages. On takeoff, the woman gripped her armrests. Once airborne the pilot, Captain Winters turned off the cabin lights. Sam looked around. Most passengers slept. A few read. The woman did neither. She simply sat, looking around.

Roughly midway between Newark and Portland, Sam saw the cockpit door open. Captain Winters emerged, said something to the flight attendant, and entered the restroom. The flight attendant stood in front of the cockpit door. Sam watched as a man in first class stood and waited for the bathroom. The pilot finished his business and the first class passenger began speaking to him. The woman in 11D seemed to take an interest. She sat up straighter and leaned her head toward the aisle in order to get a better look. Sam’s eyes were riveted on the woman. His heart pounded. He had a really bad feeling now that something awful was about to happen. No one other than Sam noticed. The woman calmly undid her seatbelt, reached into her handbag, pulled out a gun, and stood in the aisle.

It was time for Sam to say something. “Gun!” he yelled. “That woman has a gun!” Amidst screams and cries, Sam undid his seatbelt and jumped the woman but not before she fired off one round, striking the back shoulder of the first class passenger engaged with the pilot.

After an emergency landing in Minneapolis-St. Paul, Sam sat in the airport’s main TSA office shaking his head.

“Captain Winters is unharmed and the wounded man will live,” explained a Mr. Rollins from the Department of Homeland Security. “We’ll find out why he brought that nylon chord on board and attempted to strangle Captain Winters. Oh, look who’s here, our hero.”

“I had no idea. You saved us all. I’m so sorry,” Sam said after being introduced to the flight’s air marshal, the woman in 11D.

30 MINUTE PARKING
STRICTLY ENFORCED – 24 HOURS
VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED

I’d be 20-minutes. Tops. I parked the Chevy in the heavily wooded narrow street and dashed into the lobby and up three flights of stairs into my son’s new apartment. After helping him navigate a couple of medical insurance forms, I was back on the street. No car. Gone. After less than 20 minutes, my car had vanished. A closer look at the sign revealed the following fine print:

PARKING FOR RETAIL STORES ONLY
TOWING BY SISK
555-555-1212

Sons of bitches made it so that if you were unfamiliar with the area and not standing within a few feet of the sign you’d miss it. The asshole’s voice on the other end of the phone informed me that $200; cash only, had to be paid. He asked me the sign’s location, gave me his address and said, “You’ll find it.” Before hanging up, Mr. Customer Service Award Winner of the Year added, “$75 a day storage for every day the car sits here.”

ATM machine. Cab ride. I’m standing behind a woman at Sisk’s Garage. The lot is full of cars, from a beat up old AMC Gremlin to a showroom-new Tesla. The woman shells out crisp bills that were no doubt neatly stacked in a nearby ATM machine moments before. By the amount she counted out, it appeared as though she had taken advantage of the “Sisk Extra Special $75 / Day Storage Fee.” A worn King James Bible sat on the counter. It was opened to Matthew 7:12. A “Jesus Saves” sign hung on the wall behind T. Sisk. That was the name stitched on the oval patch of the guy’s oil stained blue shirt. A partially eaten hamburger rested near his grease shined fingers.

“I just want you to know, sir, that my daughter’s inhaler was in my car when you towed it and she suffered a near fatal asthma attack. If a good Samaritan hadn’t come by and seen her gasping for air….I’m just so upset by this. You really should make the sign more clear,” she finished and blotted tears with a tissue.

T. Sisk didn’t bother looking up. He took a bite from the burger, rubberstamped “PAID” on a hand-written receipt and said, “Shudda read the sign. Next!”

I stepped toward the counter. “That’s some racket you got going on here. That poor woman is right. The fine print on that sign is impossible to read. I can’t imagine how many cars must get towed here day and night.”

T. Sisk jammed four normal bites worth of hamburger and bun into his mouth. He barely chewed and then swallowed. “Make and model car,” he responded. He looked at his watch. It had a cracked crystal. The slob could afford a new Rolex. I bit my tongue, paid and turned for the door. The fellow’s expression on line behind me looked as if he had just swallowed a bottle of colonoscopy prep liquid. He dug into his pocket. I didn’t hang around to hear his tale.

A week later under a moonless sky, I hammered a stick into the ground at the entrance of the narrow street and affixed the following sign:

WARNING
GRIZZLY BEAR ACTIVITY
STAY ALERT

I added some fine, very fine print:

CAUTION
DOUBLE SPRING-JAW BEAR TRAPS IN ROAD

I illegally parked the Chevy and bee lined it into the apartment lobby. The wait was a short one. I had the perfect vantage point when minutes later I watched the tow truck’s two front tires blowout.

“Jesus still loves you, T. Sisk,” I said to no one.

“Nicky, stop it. I’m not your kid sister any more. I know you love me and want what’s best for me. Look at me. I’m a grown woman and I’m more than capable of making my own decisions.”

“But, I don’t trust that asshole Maurice…”

***

Denny and Lenny were twins. Not identical. Both shopped at the Oversized Man stores, but Denny liked to wear his shirts tight. He wore a size 2XL. Lenny, on the other hand, was partial to a more traditional fit, a 3XL. Each had blacksmith-like hands pressed on the shoulders of a bound and gagged the cowardly asshole named Maurice.

“I love this time of year. Who doesn’t? Well, I guess the turkeys don’t. Do you know how many turkeys are killed in the weeks prior to Thanksgiving?” It was Nick, the fourth man in the deserted medical supplies warehouse, who had raised the question. “Relax guys, it’s a rhetorical question. I’ve got the answer, 45 million turkeys. That’s a hell of a lot of dead bird. But, that’s why I love this holiday, the food, the family get-togethers, all of that stuff. Denny, what’s your favorite Thanksgiving dish?”

Without hesitation, “Drumsticks! Guess I’m a leg man through and through.” He laughed, but kept the pressure on Maurice’s shoulder.

“How ‘bout you, Lenny?”

The twin hesitated, his voice incongruously high. “I guess it’s the stuffing, but it has to be the canned stuff. I can’t stand that homemade shit.”

Nick stared down at Maurice. The latter’s eyes were wide. He fought to control his bladder. “I have a different question for you, Maurice. What does ‘No’ mean?”

Maurice lost the battle. A growing wet stain expanded over the crotch area of his slacks.

“Let me be more specific. When my sister said ‘No’ to you last night, what the fuck did you think she meant? Exactly what part of ‘No’ didn’t you understand?” Maurice squeezed his eyes shut. Nick continued in a soothed tone, “These are also rhetorical questions, like the turkey question. I’m not looking for answers, ‘cause I already know…no means no! Simple shit.”

Nick head-gestured to Denny who temporarily removed his grip on Maurice. Denny undid Maurice’s belt, pants button and zipper. His trousers dropped toward the cold cement floor like a free-falling elevator. Nick pulled two latex gloves from his pocket and twisted them onto his hands. “Oh shit. Look at you. And last night you were such a tough guy. Tut…tut. Wet yourself? Don’t be ashamed. No sir. Happens to the best of us. Shit, that’s even happened to me…when I was three! You know, Maurice, that’s the last piss you’re going to take for the next couple of days. See, this warehouse is closed for the long Thanksgiving vacation.” Nick pulled a tube of Strong Arm Glue from his shirt pocket, opened it, and squeezed half the tube’s contents onto gloved fingers. He applied the glue all over the head of Maurice’s penis. He smoothed the edges of the application as if he had put the finishing touches on handmade pottery. He was satisfied, stood back and admired his handiwork. He looked at the tube and squinted. “Says here the official glue of the NFL. Perfect. My sister told me you’re a big Cowboys fan. This’ll be like a double reverse…enema. It’s 100% waterproof, amazingly strong, and dries to form a perfect sealant. There’s even a warning about adherence to human flesh, although it doesn’t specifically address the dick area. Shit works on everything. And, it’s unaffected by temperature and dries in minutes. That’s great, given the lack of heat in this place and the fact that three of us have to get out of here and enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with our families.” He turned toward Denny and Lenny. “Let’s go.”

The twin brothers double-checked Maurice’s bindings, including the handcuffs used to secure him to a large forklift. Nick pulled from a rack a sealed catheter and slid it across the floor toward Maurice. “You’ll need this come Monday morning when this place opens up and the workers find you here. Instructions on the back. Read ‘em carefully.”

“No…” echoed Maurice’s voice, but the three were gone.

Ralph got a kick out of the costumes and revelers celebrating the Chinese New Year. It was January 2012. He played with the fortune cookie in his jacket pocket. His crooked smile evaporated. Fat Hungs was crowded, always was. Ralph sat in a back table adjacent to the swinging kitchen doors. He remembered the days when he ate all of the General Tso’s chicken his stomach could handle without a care in the world. Now, with a fork he stabbed at the plate of steamed broccoli and brown rice. Under his breath he cursed his doctor and nagging wife. But the vision at a round table across the restaurant was more distasteful than his tasteless dinner. Big Benny Rollins’s thick lips were greased and shiny from the huge plate of spare ribs from which he gorged. In between ripping meat from the bone, Benny stuffed fried egg rolls and shrimp tempura down his talkative throat. He sat with a woman Ralph didn’t recognize. Probably talking bullshit Ralph thought. Maybe Benny was enlightening her on how he spilled his obese guts to a couple of ambitious federal investigators, thereby shutting down what Ralph and his boss, and his bosses’ boss perceived to be an extremely lucrative and legitimate business.

The parade outside grew bigger and louder. The face of Benny grew shinier and greasier from a combination of sweat and fat. Ralph wanted to take a silk handkerchief from his jacket and wipe Benny’s face clean. Instead, he pulled out the fortune cookie from his pocket, stopped the waiter carrying a tray of tea and two fortune cookies toward Bernie’s table. Ralph removed one cookie from the tray, replaced it with a C-note and the cookie from his pocket. “For the gentleman.” The waiter nodded.

Benny’s thick fingers cracked the cookie. He read, “Happy New Year – Year of the Rat.” Benny looked around, the sweat beads more prevalent. He called over the waiter.

“What the hell’s the meaning of this?” He handed the waiter his fortune.

The waiter looked at the small piece of paper. He hesitated, then, “This is the year of the rat, sir. Anything wrong?”

Benny shook his head. “Never mind. Bring me the check.”

Benny paid and headed out into the crowded street. Right behind him, Ralph approached the cashier, paid for his uneaten meal, and asked the cashier about the year.

“The year of the dragon,” was her reply.

Ralph thanked her and joined the noisy crowd. Among the fireworks and the loud marching bands blasting music, no one heard the shot.

Scott Edwards sopped the remaining yolk with whole-wheat toast and peered at the early edition sports pages. It was a few minutes after 5:00am. Every morning at this hour, seven days a week, he was the only patron at The Sunrise Diner. Not this morning. He was about to call for a coffee refill, when he noticed a man in a wheelchair parked at the end of his booth. The man didn’t take his eyes off Edwards.

“Can I help you?” Edwards asked, regaining his composure and craning his neck for his favorite waitress, Diane.

The wheelchair-bound man was strapped in by a seat belt. He maneuvered himself next to Edwards. “It was too early to shave. I don’t usually go out without shaving. I’m sorry for my unkempt appearance. You’re Scott Edwards, yes?”

Edwards glared at the man. “Yes.”

“Chairman of the Society for Wheelchair Advocacy?”

Edwards nodded. “And you are?”

“Stinson. Sam Stinson. I was able to roll myself into this diner thanks to the ramp the society funded and built here. Thank you.”

Edwards smiled softly and offered his hand for shaking. “It’s my pleasure. We do a lot of good work in this community. I’ve finished eating, but care to join me for coffee?”

“Sure, I’d love a cup. It’s nice having choices.”

“Beg your pardon?” Edwards caught Diane’s attention and ordered two coffees.

“For breakfast, you had an entire list of items from which to choose. Eggs, pancakes, muffins, you name it. We can drink regular coffee, decaffeinated or a latte. I like options.”

Edwards’ salt and pepper eyebrows rose slightly. He began forming an exit strategy.

Tell me, Mr. Edwards, do you know Tina?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. Does she have a last name?”

Stinson moved in a little closer and shook his head.

Diane brought two fresh mugs of black coffee and set them on the table. Without a word, she disappeared into the kitchen. “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Stinson.”

“I’ll introduce you to Tina.”

Edwards poured cream and dropped two sugar cubes into his coffee, stirred, and sipped. “With all due respect Mr. Stinson, I’m a busy…”

Stinson produced a knife. “You’re busy skimming money from the coffers of the charitable organization you’ve been entrusted to run. Word is we collected in excess of three quarters of a million dollars this year, yet the bank accounts show total balances less than half that amount. Can you explain it? Where did the money go?”

Edwards drank more coffee. “I don’t know what you’re getting at Stinson, but I don’t like it. You’re making a serious accusation. I hope you can back it up.” Edwards stared at the knife.

“Actually, I have all the proof I need. I have copies of the checks, you know, the ones that have lines for two signatures, but only contain one?” Stinson saw he had Edwards’ attention. “You discovered the banks didn’t care about second signatures as long as the check amounts were less than $10,000. It took you a while, but you figured it out. You’ve been siphoning charitable funds into some off shore account somewhere.”

Edwards took the napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. “Enough! Get out of my way. I’m leaving.”

Stinson smiled. “But not before you sign a confession about the funds you embezzled.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Tina.”

“What the hell do you keep talking about? Who the hell is she?”

Stinson pulled a printed document and a pen from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. “Tina isn’t a she. Sign it.”

“What?” Edwards coughed nervously. “Don’t bully me Stinson.”

Stinson tightened his grip on the knife and shoved it against Edwards’ side.

“Wait!” shouted Edwards. He sheepishly looked around the empty diner to make sure none of the staff heard. He lowered his voice. “Listen Stinson, I’m sure there’s been a horrible misunderstanding. I’m certain two rational men can work things out. Let’s say you and I put our heads together and come up with a…”

“Sign!” The knife pressed harder against the embezzler’s ribcage. “There. Is. No. Alternative.”

Two cops go into a liquor store. No joke.

A punk named Freeman checked his brain at the door. He never intended to hurt anyone the day he entered A&J Liquor Mart. His gun was plastic. Within seconds, the whacky cashier pulled his own gun, no toy, and fired at Freeman. His untrained hand missed badly. The slug came to rest in Officer Turlington’s junk. Family jewels splattered over the black and white tiles. Then the stupid jerk of a clerk fainted. Freeman cleaned out the till then walked over to the bloodied officer and took the cop’s gun.

Turlington’s partner, Frank, a year and a half from retirement, swung around the rum aisle and pointed his weapon at Freeman. “Don’t move!” Frank the cop walked slowly toward Freeman. “Drop the gun!” The officer shifted his eyes momentarily toward his fallen partner. Mistake. Freeman squeezed one shot from Turlington’s gun. Exit Frank. Freeman bent down inches from Turlington’s pained face. “Listen Dick-less, they might pin your dead partner’s killing on you. Hell, your gun is the murder weapon. You two cops picked the wrong day to booze shop.”

***

     Max’s Mask and Costume offered sophisticated high tech costumes and masks, often times costing three figures or more. Retired Patrolman Turlington rolled his wheelchair into Max’s shop and weaved himself around the excited kids. Max waived the disabled former cop into the back room.

The workbench was covered with clay, sculpting tools, slush latex, paints, and varnish. Max grabbed a mask from among the mess, held it up, and thrust it forward toward Turlington. “I’ve been working on this nonstop for you. I tossed out the first couple of attempts, but I really like this one. Whaddya think?” Max asked.

“It’s a good thing I’m sitting! Max, you’re a magician! This is scary good!” a giddy Turlington said. “What do I owe you?”

Max headed for the door. “Owe? For what? You were never here for a mask I never made.”

***

     Freeman got 10 years for robbery. They couldn’t prove he killed Frank. He was out in half the time for good behavior. He found religion, started over, and settled down with his new family in a little ranch on a tree lined street less than 10 miles from the liquor store.

The air was crisp and clear, the sky cloudless, perfect weather for October 31. Number 12 Pleasant Way was decked out with fake gravesites on a manicured front lawn sporting several mummy statues. The front porch housed a couple of hanging witches on broomsticks as well as three pumpkins. It was a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Freeman was in the living room reading a magazine when he noticed out of the corner of his eye a wheelchair on the front porch. His son opened the door and offered a tray full of goodies. He saw a police uniform and a big smile crossed his young face.

“I’ll take a red one, please,” the handicapped man said softly. The child opened the door and handed him the cherry-flavored sweet. “Is your father home?”

“Daddy, there is a policeman at the front door and he wants to see you.”

Freeman was already on his way when he got a good look at the man in the wheelchair. Freeman heard two familiar words. “Don’t move!” He froze with a chill that could have put an end to global warming. It wasn’t the gun that sent Freeman’s heart pumping like a gasoline tank filling a parched SUV. He was looking into the face of the man he had killed those many years ago, a lifetime ago.

“This isn’t possible,” Freeman gurgled.

The bullet was fired in an upward trajectory toward Freeman’s crotch. In an instant, the Freemans had the scariest Halloween decorations in the neighborhood.